"Fairy Tale"

Dad bought a very old edition of Grimm's Fairy Tales when I was small.  He was very pleased to have acquired it and dramatically read it to us little people.  He excelled at that kind of thing.  He made up different voices for the different characters and held all of us in thrall.

The first story he read to us was Cinderella.  That sounds nice, doesn't it?  Friendly little creatures helping our heroine with housework, handsome prince, happily ever after.  You haven't read Grimm if you think that's the story.  No, Cinderella is an abused child whose sisters chop up their feet to get them into that glass slipper.  Birds peck out eyes... "That's enough for tonight.  I'll tell you another story tomorrow."  We were packed off to bed.

I went to sleep like I always did, and then the screaming started.  I had horrible, horrible, bloody nightmares.  Bloody feet everywhere.

Dad read another story the next night.  More child abuse and death threats.  In fact, let's decapitate a child.  "Bedtime!"  More screaming in the night.

I think you can see how this was all going.  Dad quit reading stories from his treasured book.  The screaming nightmares continued.  Dad tried reading nicer stories in the evenings.  He sang soothing songs just before bedtime.  Nothing worked.  I screamed in my sleep for two weeks.

It was fall then, and it was before anyone was concerned about carbon emissions from burning leaves.  I helped Dad rake and burn while he lectured me about how I couldn't let my whole life fall apart because of fairy tales.  I needed to get some sleep, and everyone else in the house needed sleep too.  They were just stories.  Part of growing up was knowing the difference between real life and fiction.

I burst into tears.  I sobbed as I told him I tried to have nice dreams.  I wasn't "trying to get attention" like Mom thought.  I went into the fetal position in a pile of raked leaves and couldn't stop crying while Dad stood over and looked at me.

He made a loud huff and stomped into the house.  I continued to cry.  He came back with his treasured volume and we put it in the leaf fire together.  No more fairy tale nightmares.  Everybody in my house agreed; it was the best book burning ever.

For better fairy tales...

Politically Correct: The Ultimate Story Book by James Finn Garner

Faeries by Froud, Brian and Alan Lee

"Music"

Sometimes I wish I had a smaller yard.  I've been raking leaves in between bouts of snow.  It hasn't been enough snow to count, but enough to convince me that leaf raking can be put off for another day (like in April).  I listen to the swish, swish, swish of the rake through the leaves and think of this little story about snow in China by Jim Croce.

Anthony Arya recently sang Croce's "Operator" on the singing competition show "The Voice", which you can see here.  He's a cute boy, and he sang it well even though he didn't even know what an operator was and I just don't believe his heart has ever been broken.  Somehow the song isn't the same without the heartbreak.

Jim Croce is one of my favorite go to musicians when I'm feeling blue.  "Photographs and memories... all that I have are these to remember you."  At some point the longing and romanticism gets replaced by P!nk on youtube "You weren't there, you never were" and I quit feeling nostalgic and think about Chinese people sweeping snow.

Arya's heart will probably get broken eventually.  I'm not wishing it on him, but  I often think the best artists (and other professions) have interesting and/or painful back stories which create a need for these people to express or prove themselves.  I want a peaceful world, but I suspect it would be beige and boring.  Maybe I'm just looking for a point behind the world's miseries, but this explanation gives me peace so I'm sticking with it unless someone can give a better reason.

Use what you're given.  If your heart is broken, sing a song with tears and a crack in your voice.  It may seem less perfect, but the cracked song touches the hearts of the people who hear it, and it seems like that's the point of all art.  If you're young and innocent, sing innocent songs.  There's a song for every emotion in the rainbow, but the classics are classic because they speak to emotions.  There's comfort in knowing someone else understands how you're feeling.

I painted this portrait of Robert Smith as part of a larger assignment.  I'll admit I didn't even recognize his name at first.  I dutifully looked him up and liked his wild hair.  I'm sure I've listened to The Cure, I even suspect it's one of my ex's favorite bands, but I don't usually pay much attention to who is singing, just what they're singing...

"There was nothing in the world that I ever wanted more than to never feel the breaking apart all my pictures of you."

Hmm... I wonder if Robert and Jim Croce could've cried in their beers together and felt their common humanity?  Maybe they'd just like to talk about Chinese people sweeping snow?

I was going to end this by saying it was time to rake some leaves, but it's raining now.  Maybe I'll spend more time listening to music on youtube because April definitely seems like the best time for raking?

"Magical"

I walked in the park this week wearing shorts and sandals.  Everyone I met smiled and said "hi".  The trees dumped truckloads of ankle-turning acorns all over everything and the squirrels and chipmunks were happily scurrying around.  It was a good day, a magical day.  It feels so long ago.  Now I'm trying to decide whether or not to pick all my green tomatoes before the cold ruins them.  I'm so sick of tomatoes.  I'll be so sorry when I don't have garden fresh tomatoes anymore.

I helped a friend with his fall leaves this week too.  He lives 15 minutes away in a whole different climate.  We spent 4 hours on his leaves but all of mine are still green.  Oh okay, maybe we didn't actually do productive things in that whole 4 hours.  We might've spent 10 minutes or a couple of hours talking in the driveway, but you know, it still counts.  Sort of.  We've got to ease into our fall exercise routine.

Our different climates are due to the Great Lakes.  I live 2 miles away from Lake Erie as the crow flies.  He's more like 10 or 15 miles from the lake.  In fall, the lake still holds the warmth of the summer sun.  That means my world is a little balmier than my friend's.  In spring, the lake is an ice cube making my world colder.  So you see, it all works out about even for everyone, I just feel a bit out of step with most of the rest of the world.  That's fine.  It suits me.

I've always felt a bit out of sync with everyone else.  Maybe we all feel that way sometimes?  I learned how to pretend to be like everyone else while indulging my idiosyncrasies.  Once, I told someone that I was practicing for the day when I become an eccentric old lady.  He told me I could quit practicing.  That's an achievement that still pleases me.  Just wait till I'm truly an eccentric old lady!

At the heart of it, I know we all have to conform enough to get along.  At the same time, what's the point of everyone being the same?  Everything that makes each of us special is where the magic is.  For creative people, it makes our creations interesting.  For everyone, our distinctiveness is what makes us an interesting friend or a valuable employee or boss.  Maybe the people who aren't good at these things aren't good at them because they're trying too hard to row against their personal current?

Unrelated to any of this, I'm currently reading A Deadly Wandering by Pulitzer Prize winner Matt Richtel.  In it, I learned driving while talking on the phone is even worse than drunk driving.  It doesn't matter if you're doing it hands-free or not.  Texting is even worse.  I know many of my loved ones talk on the phone all the time while driving.  Please stop.  Whatever you've got to say can wait.  You can read more about the statistics here.

The book also addresses the neuroscience behind the addictiveness of smart phones.  I haven't finished the book yet, but so far it's an interesting read.  For those of you who find the topic interesting, I'd recommend it.  Maybe we can apply some social pressure to getting people away from their phones to take magical walks in the fall leaves?

"Inside"

I should either rake leaves outside or clean house inside today.  What I've actually done is watch news and play computer games.  Today is supposed to be the chilliest day of the week so the housekeeping idea is gaining a little traction, and staying inside would allow me to continue my news obsession.

There's all sorts of major things going on in the greater world, but the news isn't talking much about that.  It's mostly about sexual harassment.  You may remember this is a topic that hits close to home since it was major factor at my last job, and most of my other jobs, and it seems people are noticing it happens to quite a few women.

I've had quite a few conversations with men lately on the topic.  Some get it, as well as anyone can who isn't living it.  More seem ignorant or misinformed.  It doesn't occur in front of them, so they have a hard time believing it's as prevalent or serious as claimed.

One male friend asked why I thought it had happened so often to me.  Because I've been single?  Because I worked in a male-dominated profession? Because I'm assertive and accomplished?  Because I turned down cheating coworkers for dates?  As more and more women come out with their stories, I wonder if I'm not as alone as I've felt.  It's part of our culture where a woman is paid and valued less than a man.  This article expresses someof the issues, but it only addresses the conditioning females endure.

I've been adding up the perps in my life and I'm flabbergasted by the sheer quantity of them, and I'm not counting cat callers and ass grabbers.  I've been assaulted, harassed, and discriminated against.  I've suffered stalking, break-ins, window peeping, and phone calls.  Some of this lasted years, and the police and other authorities were useless.  And for the record, I wasn't dressed like a slut and it wasn't my fault.  The perps were usually attractive and well-off.  All were white.

Women forced to leave jobs due to harassment have to work their way up ladders over and over in ways men don't have to do -- which is another justification to pay women less and pass them over for promotions.  Keep in mind, they climb those ladders while coping with the traumas they've been accumulating on the job, and often go home to verbally or physically abusive mates.

We need to speak up and support each other, and that includes good men who are willing to talk about the subject.  Everyone needs to understand that it's going to continue because perpetrators aren't caught or prosecuted.  Too many events are he said/she said without a chance of justice.  But, women are finally getting believed.  It's a start.

Reluctantly climbing off of my soap box where I could rant considerably longer, the leaves are calling.  It's cathartic to listen to the news when perps are finally getting outed, but my lawn is orange with leaves.  Fresh air and exercise feels like it's winning over housekeeping.  This is older art, done at another job where I was harassed and discriminated against, where my boss exposed himself, where his female boss laughed it off as "boys will be boys"... ohmmm... yeah, fresh air, exercise, happy thoughts!

"Pointy"

I've come to realize that painting my floor is going to take 4 lifetimes.  I'm pretty sure nobody wants to examine each leaf as lovingly as I am, so maybe I can combine them with IF words in ways that don't pull me away from my latest obsession project.

I wanted a lengthy project so I could think.  I think a lot better when I'm painting.  I have happy thoughts and unhappy thoughts.  Seeing how it is all connected helps me move forward.

I used to play chess with Dad.  I'd move a piece and he'd sit back and study.  I wished he would just move along so I could go, but he was the type to think on things.  He read a chess book and the weekly chess column in the newspaper.  Sigh.  I'd put some Legos together until it was my turn again.  It wasn't like I expected to win because Dad didn't play down his abilities for my child status.

One day I did win.  I was completely surprised by this unexpected turn of events, and Dad was clearly surprised too.  We played again and I was thoroughly trounced, but I now understood that Dad was fallible.  The possibility of winning existed.  I don't think he wanted me to know that.  I eventually won often enough that I could see Dad's internal conflict between losing to a child and pride in his daughter.  We usually solved this by fishing.

Many years later, my brother and I played chess.  I didn't think about my preconceived ideas, but rammed straight into them when Bro crushed me.  Whoa, wait a minute!  I'm supposed to win.  I'm the elder by 9 years and I win games.  My ego was bruised, and I felt ashamed of myself for it.  A little humility can be a good thing?

Bro is like Dad and actually thinks out his moves in a painfully rational way.  Bro says he played chess a lot when he was trapped on a Navy ship.  Perhaps my slap-dash method is flawed?  I decided that Bro as 5th child needed something to excel at, so I choose to let him have this, especially since getting better at chess would require effort on my part and I don't intend on allowing myself to get trapped on a Navy ship.

Almost done with second corner

See, painting leaves on the floor is like Dumbledore's pensieve.  I pull off excess surface thoughts so other thoughts can bubble to the top for me to consider.  For instance, yesterday an Indian man told me about women's current status in India, which seems a lot like how it was when I was a child in the US.  He is concerned about his daughter's future and I see the connection of playing chess with Dad.

Chess with Dad was a lifetime ago.  It seems like such ancient history that I wonder about bothering to think about it at all, but it allows me to see how I think, what motivates me, how I can use that knowledge to improve my present.  The project isn't the floor, it's me.

Tired of being blamed

BTW, my dog smells much sweeter, but I still catch traces of skunk in my house despite washing everything twice and the dog many more times than that.  Wikipedia's map shows skunks are an American thing, so you folks in other parts of the world just don't know the horrors these cute little critters can inflict!

"Treasure"

A book I've been reading says to journal our worst experiences to bring to light faulty messages we’ve absorbed that are so ingrained in our thoughts we don’t even notice they’re in the muzak of our minds.  We’ve all got these kinds of crap thoughts.  How often do we actually look at them, or consider who put them in our heads in the first place?  Why do we allow them to poison our lives?

I have been called a lot of names in my life.  I was told the bad in my life was because I "deserved it".  I certainly won't say I'm perfect, but a lot of this is just blatantly untrue and unhelpful, and mining memories can either feel like I'm suffocating in an avalanche of negativity or mining treasure, or perhaps a bit of both.  There is gold in finding a better way to think and feel, but sometimes you've got to go into a very dark cave to get it.

But, when we look at the source, and question the statements, we can get rid of the running diatribe of verbal abuse someone else started and we continue in our minds.

If I am any of the nasty things I've been called, then let me challenge myself to improve those areas -- but that's not why someone said those things in the first place.  They are/were bullies who want(ed) to make themselves feel better by knocking me down.  I'd rather take self-improvement tips from someone who sets a better example.  Since the only person I control is me, then I need to set a better example for myself.

Somewhere I heard the advice to talk to myself as if I were a child I loved and wanted to guide in helpful ways.  For instance, I wouldn't call a child selfish.  It's a normal phase of development, a time when I'd encourage the child to understand the good in sharing.  Hoarding a game of checkers is less fun than playing it with someone.  Pushing the swing is sometimes as fun as sitting on it.

Doing these kinds of mental exercises makes me aware of things I like about myself no matter how much other people have tried to contain me.  That's the real treasure.

"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moths and vermin destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven... For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” Matthew 6:19-21

(Sorry for venturing into a biblical quote.  I really get enough of that at work, but it's on point and explains Dumbledore’s sister’s grave, something I’ve wondered about.)

Let's share our treasures this week.  Make the world a better place by saying nice things to others and especially to ourselves!

SLOW progress report on the floor, made slower my tendency to use a tiny #2 brush.  It doesn't help that I'm still a bit sore from falling off the deck and the realization that as I age the floor keeps getting harder and farther away.  I remind myself that the point of this insanity is that I wanted a long-term project for contemplation.

I told Bro I was going to paint money amongst the leaves for "treasure".  He said not to do that because he'd keep trying to pick it up.  When my friend John heard that he said I should definitely paint money on the floor.

"Sea"

I wrote a post this morning when I was fresh as a daisy and eager for the day.  Now I’m trying to work up energy to take a bath.  The earlier post just doesn’t feel as pertinent any more.

The original idea had to do with the sea of leaves in my backyard with hopes that my brother Pete would blow them away.  That didn’t happen.  He started the lawnmower and set me to mulching the damned things while I cursed my younger self for teaching him about self-sufficiency and female empowerment.  My hands are bruised from the stupid mower and I worked up a sweat while freezing to death.  You wouldn’t know it from these photos, but it’s a big backyard.  Mulching took hours.  I’m thinking of letting the back 40 reforest.

Add caption

Peter came over with his bud Dave to take down a couple of trees.  One was dead, the other growing way too enthusiastically too close to the house.  The gas company came out and ripped up the front of my yard fixing gas leaks recently.  I’m not sure if the gas leaks killed the birch tree and nearly killed a rhododendron, but any way you look at it, my front yard is a mess.  My house looks blank without the trees.

This is where I think I ought to be good at landscaping, but I’m not.  Just because I’m an artist with some creative ability doesn’t mean I’m good at this.  My goals are simple enough.  I want the birds to hop around in shrubs or trees just outside my windows.  If the replacement flora provides food for me and/or birds, even better, and pretty flowers, best yet.  Oh yeah, and no weeding.  I want a perpetual garden without effort.

The front yard is tiny, so I think this should all be possible, or it would be possible if I knew how to put it together.  I suppose that’s why somebody planted rhododendrons and pachysandra there in the first place.

I’ve been in this house a long time.  It was my 5-year plan to get $ together enough to buy a real house.  I was renting a 1-bedroom apartment in a haunted Willoughby house for $350/mo when I decided I might as well pay a mortgage and have something to show for it after a while.

5 years came and went, but I was comfortable.  I moved to another state for a while and let some friends move in.  I came back when I got divorced and was really glad to have a home to come back to, especially when I hear what other people pay for mortgages and property taxes.

I got laid off the day the realtor gave me the keys, and spent the first day in my house crying in the basement because I didn’t know how I’d be able to keep it.  Hard work, sacrifice, and a lot of scrimping, but I kept it.  Now I own it.  The letter came from the bank one day, and I felt prouder than you can imagine.

I suppose this post is a stretch for “sea”, but whether it’s a sea of leaves or a sea of debt, or any other kinds of seas, this is my little bit of world where I am the queen of my universe.  I could point out that I’m 2 miles from Lake Erie as the crow flies, and that’s an inland sea.

Peter wouldn’t cooperate with blog photos today, but thanks to him and Dave today!!  BTW, both Dave and Pete are available and have useful skills.  Any takers?

"Puppet"

I was a toy-deprived child.  I know this sounds unthinkable today, but my leisure items were limited to books, Monopoly, chess, checkers, blocks, and Legos.  There was a stupid plastic baby doll with plastic hair, but I hated that thing.  It didn't love me and real babies are messy, noisy and a thousand other irritations.  I learned that fast.

Bro says illo #1 isn't a puppet so I made
this ghost. He says this isn't a puppet either.

My oldest sister had a Barbie knock off and a Ken doll.  I snuck into her things on a regular basis to play with Ken.  I could care less about Tammy, but Ken was dreamy.  Messing with Sis' stuff was flirting with real pain when caught, so eventually Ken and I ended our relationship.  So sad.  I wonder if he ever thinks of me?

Okay, I had a well-loved
hand-me-down Teddy too.

Thus ended my early days of make believe and toys until I was a teenager and the Muppets were on tv.  I bought a Kermit. 
Aware that I never enjoyed the prerequisite amount of play, I took Kermit with me to see his movie.  I went with a friend who brought her own Kermit.  Our mutual friend thought we were hopelessly nuts which just made the whole thing funnier.  I took Kermit to a lot more activities and enjoyed that friend's look of exasperation.

I got Animal to keep Kermit company.  I loved Animal.  He was everything I could relate to, unlike Sis' Tammy.  I wonder if Ken would love my inner "Animal"?

My relationship with toys was therefore somewhat formed, and I was happy with my 2 pets.  I didn't talk to them or anything.  I mean, I knew they were stuffed, inanimate objects, but they made me smile.

Until... yes, another painful parting.

Bro says sock puppet counts :)

I was living in the bottom half of a house when I was in college, when Stacey knocked on my door saying that my upstairs neighbors told her I was looking for a roommate.  I said okay since Pat and Matt recommended her.  They afterwards said they only sent her downstairs to get rid of her.  Aaagh!!!  Lesson: check references.

She wasn't all bad, but I wanted to kill her when her lesbian relationship stood between me and the bathroom.  I had to go outside and around the house to go in the back door, which is annoying enough, but they also xxxxx... Okay, some things don't need to be recorded in blogland.  I'm sure there are some very fine lesbians out there, but Stacey wasn't a desirable roommate.

Our house was broken into and Stacey's cache of cash got stolen with a bunch of other things that the thief obviously knew she had.  My stuff was just tossed around, but intact... except for Animal.  They stole Animal!!!

I wish they'd stolen Stacey instead.  So much for my life with puppets.

TV doodles for art this week.  While scribbling I came up with an idea I'd like to pursue, but that's nowhere near to unveiling yet since it's still just an idea.  What I will share is that sometimes I just scribble and then see what zen pictures are hiding in the scribbles like taking a Rorschach test.  Sometimes the best ideas are waiting to be found that way.

...maybe some fall leaves too?

 

 

"Natural"

In the beginning I was a lonely wolf child in the woods with a father who made me eat trees and roots and stuff.  I caught dinner, killed it, cleaned it, cooked it, then washed the dishes and took the compost out back and buried fish parts in the garden. 

In my current life, my car was dying a painful death and I had to get a car fit the grown-up wolf child.  Here were my priorities:  American-made, affordable, simple, 2-door, hatchback, good on gas, 360 visibility, red.  This all seemed attainable until I went car shopping.  I started testing everything and hated everything... until that magic moment when I saw it and fell in love.

Okay, it's 4-door, but it's still a hatchback for the stuff I need to cart around.  I don't know what that stuff will be yet, but now the possibilities are endless.  It's on the "10 most American cars" list, with a Mexican engine and a Canadian something or other, but the rest of it's US and assembled in Michigan.  People laughed at me when I said I wanted an American car because they think everything is made somewhere else, but it just doesn't seem right to make a gas-efficient car then ship it around the world for me to start saving gas.

My Ford CMax is a hybrid.  I don't have to plug it in; it knows when it wants gas or electric.  So far it mostly wants electric, and my gas gauge hasn't moved off FULL even though I've been trotting around all over the place this week.  It's silent in electric mode and it gives me "efficiency leaves" for driving responsibly.  It recoups electricity from the wheels every time I brake and gives me credit for good braking too.  I love constant positive reinforcement with leaves -- it absolutely makes my inner wolf child very happy.  I think it's as "natural" as I'm going to find in a car.

And did I mention that it's red?  Not just any red; it's the absolutely perfect shade of red (ruby red metallic or PMS #201 metallic if you prefer).

I was sorry to let my old car go, but a bad transmission was the last sign that it was time for something new.  It was 10 years old, and a lot of those years were spent driving to the west side and back through Cleveland's rush hour traffic and some years when I didn't have enough $ for proper maintenance.  RIP or blessings in your new home.

I had to go through the old car for all my treasures before handing over the keys.  I put some of my lucky stones in the new car, but I'm a bit undecided if I should put my feathers in the new visor or search for new feathers.  I know I have to take my office out for a ride, so I haven't put the minnow bucket in the back yet with my nets.  My office mates don't know about my inner wolf child and I don't know if they'd understand.

Since the new car is bigger than the last, I'm considering putting the rest of my survival gear in too.  You never know when you'll need a tent and sleeping bag.  I have maps too because with 50 mpg, it seems like there are roads as yet untraveled that need exploring.  Aawoooooo!!!

Survival tip:  Dealerships sell you more car (or house) than you can comfortably pay, so they extend loans for years.  If you pay extra towards the principal, you shorten your loan because your early car payments are mostly interest on the loan.  You actually pay for what you bought at the end, but if you add even $5 or $10 to your car payment at the beginning (clearly marked "for principal"), you'll get rid of years of interest payments.  If you get a tax refund, put that on the principal too and you'll save a ton of money.

"Sky"

The sky in Ohio is full of colorful leaves right now.  When I was a kid it was still legal to burn them, and the smell of burning leaves mingled with the aroma of pumpkin pie in the oven and the anticipation of Halloween around the corner made fall a happy season.

Sing a song of seasons!

Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer,

Fires in the fall!

That’s by Robert Louis Stevenson.  I just love him.  He had something good to say about everything and wrote in exclamation marks.  I thought of his poem “The Swing” first when I saw Illustration Friday’s word of the week is “Sky”…

How do you like to go up in a swing,

Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

Ever a child can do!

I repeat that poem in my head every time I see a swing.  If you have a child in your life, get A Child’s Garden of Verses.  It will get them through every season, happy experience, and inspire their creativity.  Or, to heck with the kids.  Get that book for yourself or read it online here.  I realize poetry isn’t that fashionable any more, but sometimes it says things that can’t be said any other way.  RLS’s poems have meant a great deal to me, but sometimes I write things of my own…

A cyclone of words swirl over me

Their colors spun into a circling web

Words unspoken, unwritten, unexpressed

The energy of their feelings, of my feelings

Spin in an endlessly spiraling vortex.

I keep a file of poetry beginnings, and the above is something I wrote so long ago that I don’t remember what inspired it.  I’m much better at poetry beginnings than writing finished poems to tell the truth, but maybe it doesn’t matter?  It doesn't even matter if it's good.  It’s the art of expression, in whatever medium we choose to express ourselves.  Today I’m thinking of autumn, and this poem seems to be a verbal illustration of falling leaves in the sky.

"Proverb"

The Byrds sang "Turn, Turn, Turn" straight out of the Bible, except for the last line. The music is by Pete Seeger. The Byrds' version was released when I was a very little child, the Viet Nam war was going on, and I couldn't understand why my dad railed against hippies for saying "make love, not war".

To everything, turn, turn, turn
There is a season, turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything, turn, turn, turn
There is a season, turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven.

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together

To everything, turn, turn, turn
There is a a season, turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven

A time of love, a time of hate
A time of war, a time of peace
A time you may embrace, a time to refrain from embracing

To everything turn, turn, turn
There is a season, turn, turn, turn
And a time to every purpose, under Heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time for love, a time for hate
A time for peace, I swear it's not too late

I argued with my Sunday school teacher Mrs. Blazy about this song. I didn't want to accept that God sanctioned war or hate, especially when the horrors of Viet Nam were on TV every night. I'm sure I was responsible for some of Mrs. Blazy's gray hair for this and other religious differences.

I have an ongoing war against the maple trees that try to reforest my yard. I pulled these in spring, and thought their deaths ought to count for something, so I scanned them and did a lot of PhotoShop because I was studying new techniques. The original scan is below just to show that I actually did some work to get it to look like this.

I sang the song while yanking the baby maples. I can't help myself. It's a good song, and I'm not going to live in a maple forest with squirrels throwing things at my head and eating my fruit before it's ripe. Okay, there's nothing I can do about the squirrels short of shooting them, and I'm not ready to take that step... yet.

Everything changes. David Crosby isn't the fresh-faced boy he was in the '60s. The maple leaves will be changing colors soon, then falling, then snow and bare branches before I have a new crop of maple seedlings to pull out. There are a lot of proverbs about change, but this song speaks to me most because I find the truths in it so uncomfortable to deal with.